


Tender Touches

by t0talcha0s



Category: BioShock
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Some violence but it's not explicit, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 23:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7074736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0talcha0s/pseuds/t0talcha0s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diane McClintock knew she was a fool for a man with a pretty face and strong hands, and she knew that was a liability. Diane also knew she could never resist the eyes and hands of Atlas, but she never knew just how much of a liability that would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tender Touches

Atlas, Diane McClintock thought, is a whole heap of Hollywood pretty. His hair is soft and luxurious and sits as though it were just done in a salon even through all the rough and tumble times of leading a rebellion. His eyes are cool and welcoming and bluer then the sea outside the windows; Diane thought she'd get sick of the color, having been around it so often, but she could look in his eyes for decades. His nose is thin and beautifully angular and his lips sit below it full and desperately aching for a kiss, how Diane would fight for just one kiss. His chin is noble, his eyebrows full, and his ears may be a bit big but it only provides his face with character. His shoulders are broad, his arms muscular, his chest taunt, and his rump... Well. But no matter how pretty Atlas is as whole Diane believed nothing could compare to the beauty that was his hands. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you Ms. McClintock." He said when he first met her, wrapping his hands around her smaller one for a firm and meaningful handshake. His hands were soft, he had the voice of a working man and the body to match, but his hands were soft. Diane felt self conscious in the moment of her chipped nail polish and her scrapes and callouses that covered her own hands. 

"Please," she said with a soft smile and her eyes gleaming as they met his. "My name's Diane." 

-

Diane's hands learned quickly the feeling of a gun in them, the shotgun kickback was something she could get used to, a feeling she could never get used to was the feeling of Atlas' hand clapping upon her shoulder gently after a raid. 

"Nice work lass." He said to her when she came into his office with a cut up her cheekbone, perpendicular to a scar from the Kashmir blast, a sack of ammo and a fresh crossbow in her scraped up hand. "This'll keep the men loaded for weeks, you're doing me good out there." His voice was pleased and his hands were large and soft and she felt prouder in that moment then she ever had before. She used to account her self worth to her appearance, hair perfectly set in its updo, her nails smoothly varnished, her clothing tailored to a T. But now, with scars dissecting her face and tugging at her lip with every word she said, her hair ragged and sloppily tied up, her hands calloused and bruised, and her clothing ripped and stained all that mattered was how fond was the gaze that Atlas gave her and how soft his hands felt on her tired and scarred skin. 

-

Food was scarce in Apollo Square, it had to be carefully rationed and Diane was almost used to going to bed hungry due to her time in the square. She used to dine in the fanciest restaurants Rapture had to offer, but now it was whatever slop Diane could get her hands on, and she was no longer too picky. But the lack of true sustenance ended up causing some problems for poor Diane, as her stomach would loudly complain on a frequent basis that it was discontent with the food she was being served. 

She was visiting Atlas one day, talking mindlessly about plans for raids and what Rapture was and used to be, and sat on his desk was an unwrapped pep bar and a thermos of coffee; the scent, were it not for how captivating Atlas was, almost completely held her attention as she stood shakily in front of his desk. 

"Are you alright there Ms. McClintock?" He asked when she went to grab his desk for balance as she swayed on her feet from her lack of nourishment. 

"Peachy." she smiled, feeling the scar bisecting her lower lip tug at the skin around it. 

"You don't look so peachy." She waved her hand dismissively.

"I just need to sit down." Atlas stood up from his chair, coming to stand next to her and grasping her hand with is soft one. He helped lower her into a seat, his other smooth hand coming to rub at her gaunt cheek. Her stomach growled angrily and Atlas smiled in reply. His witty retort was lost to Diane as she focused on the feeling of his hands on her face and gripping her own, and just like that her world was him and her hunger hardly mattered. 

-

It was after a raid. Diane had gotten plenty talented at shooting now and she was a valued member of the bandits. Despite her newfound experience she was still shaken up over the loss of her fellow bandits, she swore she'd commit their names to memory: McGee, Epstein, Vallette, she'd never forget them. It was still a successful raid, 31 rounds of buckshot, 4 frag grenades, a shotgun, and 34 ADAM, they did not die in vain. Diane was given, or rather she forcefully requested, the duty of giving the bounty to Atlas. She walked with shaky hands, weak knees, and a hefty sack thrown over her shoulder, the butt of the shotgun dug into her shoulder blade uncomfortably but she hardly noticed. 

On her way she passed countless posters of Atlas, that strong frame, and strong chin, printed on yellow, always asking "Who Is Atlas?" She looked upon each poster with a titter in her stomach for _she_ knew atlas and she was lucky enough to visit him on the daily, or often enough at least. She pulled out an audio diary, it always helped calm her nerves to relay her story and feelings to the friendly metal box. She spoke of what was won and what was lost during the days raid and of how this was all Ryan's fault and when she came to be standing outside of Atlas' door, she sighed. 

"I can't wait to tell Atlas." She said, referring to the sack of valuables on her shoulder. "He'll be so pleased." She pushed the door open, face scrunching, puzzled as she heard a different voice then she was used to come from the office, but Atlas appeared to be alone. He was speaking into an audio diary. 

"Oh!" Atlas exclaimed, that was the voice she remembered, she didn't know what she had heard, but she knew it wasn't his, she knew something wasn't right. "Miss McClintock what are you doing here?" He stammered, his surprise was evident, it slowly dawned on her what she had just witnessed. Diane took a step back, her rough hands clenching around the sack over her shoulder, the shotgun bruised into her back. Atlas, or who she assumed was her darling Atlas, stood up. "Let me just," his voice, the voice she loved, thickly accented but so genuine, began to change, the accent fell away, his voice gone lower and gruffer. "turn this off." He growled, clicking the off button on his audio diary and stepping around his desk. 

"I-I have the ammo from the raid." She said, intimidated by the man in front of her, but trying to tell herself it was the Atlas she knew. "We got 34 ADAM." She don't know why she assumed it would appease the threatening aura of the man, atlas she tried to convenience herself, in front of her. 

"Well that's very good Ms. McClintock," her name sounded mangled in his tone, strung out and dangerous. He stepped into her personal space, his soft hands twitching at his sides. "And I'm afraid it doesn't make this any easier to do." She opened her mouth to respond but her words were struck out of her throat by the impact of smooth hands on her jugular. Atlas'- the man's eyebrows narrowed and grimaced as she struggled against him, grunting and horrified. He squeezed, and that was never how she wanted his hands around her.

**Author's Note:**

> Yo it's 1 am again and I wrote this in 10 minutes. Why am I like this. Sorry for this self indulgent shit. Please point out any/all errors. 
> 
> If you want to come hear me screech inconsolably about how, despite his working man's cover, Atlas' hands would be soft, Hmu on tumblr @barefootcosplayer.


End file.
